Jack's Lament
by MissAnneThropee
Summary: “You’re kidding me, right?” He demanded, but Lydia said nothing. “My name’s Beetle Juice?” Same characters. Same concept. Different story.


_Summary - "You're kidding me, right?" He demanded, but Lydia said nothing. "My name's Beetle Juice?" Same characters. Same concept. Different story. _

_A/N: Okay, I'll admit; this story originally had nothing to do with either the movie or the cartoon called 'Beetlejuice'. But the idea of a young girl speaking, unafraid, to a ghost lounging against his own tombstone wouldn't leave me. And when suddenly the image in my head became cockier and more…stripy, I had to put it in this category. Hopefully, the mannerisms of both Lydia and BJ will fall somewhere between their movie personas and the cartoon versions. That's what I'm going for, anyway. And though many lines are taken from the movie, (a cookie to who can spot them all!) the story fits in with neither, so keep that in mind. _

_Also, in case you somehow miss it; elements from The Nightmare Before Christmas are heavily implied. Sort of like…the closest thing to a crossover you can get without it actually being one. Because I hate them, people, I really do._

_Oh, and I own squat._

Jack's Lament

Chapter 1

Death wasn't supposed to be like this…was it?

What ever happened to final judgement? Was he halfway to Heaven, halfway to Hell? These questions he'd asked since he could remember, but no one ever answered. He was alone here. Alone and aggravatingly confused in a graveyard which, though he had tried and failed more times than he had the ability to stand, was impossible to escape. A lesson learned all too well, in the most painful and frustrating ways. His last attempt had ended the worst - One minute he was victory dancing his way past those damnable rusted gates in a matter that undoubtedly screamed, 'Fuck you world, I'm outta here!' And the next; rotted flesh was being whip-lashed from his bones in a world of white-hot-heat, so bright that all colour departed his line of vision. When sight returned to him, he found himself naked, skinless and returned to the exact same spot from which he'd started - his coffin. After that, and an hours worth of upward digging through 6ft of sodden soil, he finally gave up.

Thus he remained; irritated, trapped and void of all recollection as to how the fuck he'd even got here in the first place. Void of most memory, actually. All he knew for sure was that he - Jack - was dead. The proof was in concrete…literally. And hell, if it weren't for the mouldy slab of stone on which he spent practically every hour of his miserable existence lounging against, he'd probably not recall his own name either.

At least, he assumed his name was Jack. The carved-in letters were a little too calligraphic by his standards, and the weathering of however-many-years passed had left whatever scripture once there barely decipherable. All he could fathom were two capital letters - B and J. Now, as the B came first, it was more than likely that his name was not, in fact, Jack. But hey, it _could_ have been his middle name; people _could_ have once referred to him as such. There was that possibility, and then there was that one song his increasingly useless mind seemed adamantly reluctant to forget-

'_And I - Jack; the Pumpkin King…_'

Of course, as was typical for him these days, he could only remember this single line. The next citation was more than liable to rhyme, but for all his efforts he could not recall it. It wasn't important in the slightest, he realised, but any fragment, any _splinter_ of his life before…well, death, would have been somewhat of a comfort in the endless hours of gloom his reality had become.

Anyway, the name had stuck. He was Jack now, and nobody said otherwise, because no one was there. Other 'ghosts' appeared scarcely in irrelevant, fleeting moments when they absconded or descended or…whatever they did, to the places where he couldn't follow. The living visitors were even fewer, and on the _very_ rare occasions that some sobbing old biddy _did_ come to mourn her husband, they never saw him. He'd put it down to bad eye sight and a low hearing-aid the first few times. It never occurred to him that the living couldn't see the dead. Not until he saw his own reflection…or lack thereof, as the case may be.

And so he was more than surprised when he caught sight of a strange little girl interlacing her way amongst the gravestones. Glimmering dark eyes set certainly in his direction.

'_You can't see me_.' He thought, holding in a breath he shouldn't have had, for reasons he could not grasp. _'You're looking through me_.' She stared for a beat longer, and then the moment passed. Jack exhaled his non-existent gasp, annoyed at himself for ever doubting what was definite for even a second, and continued to study the girl. After all, there was nothing else he _could_ do.

She drew closer, eventually kneeling at the grave beside his, but did not meet his gaze again. He recognised her outfit as a typical school-girl uniform, yet there was undeniably something…_different_ about her. The pale complexion…was she dead? No, her brown-black eyes were too brilliant, too _alive _with emotion. Glittering, jewel-like even, nothing like the socket full's of murky mud-puddles he'd seen on the dead. Her face wasn't half bad either. All feminine features and little pouting lips. Pretty, very pretty, the closest thing to beautiful he'd seen in what may have been forever, for all he knew.

Although, considering the sights of the cemetery, that probably wasn't much of a compliment.

Naturally, his gaze soon wandered elsewhere. She was not such a little girl up close, he noticed, and from his usual place atop the limestone angels he had such a _wonderful_ view. And he didn't feel a damn bit guilty about it either. He remembered school. He remembered the compulsory short, short skirts and thin white blouses, both of which he enjoyed to see even more in the cold, mischievous winds of winter. And he remembered teachers too. Ancient, balding _smarmy_ teachers who were undoubtedly thinking along the same lines as him mere hours earlier. At least _he_ was dead and desperate, rather than just the latter.

"Do you mind?" Came an indignant voice too suddenly, it almost knocked him from his grave marker with the same force as it had his reverie, "This is kind of a private moment you're ruining."

Jack's impossibly wide eyes snapped from her cleavage to her face with such shocked speed that they very nearly rolled into the back of his head. She was _looking_ at him, _talking_ to him. He at last noticed the flowers in her quivering hands, and liquid streaks of black marring porcelain cheeks, but the time for apology had gone. He was too put-off to register what she'd actually said, too stunned to care, "Are you-What?-You- Can you-Huh-How the?-Can you…_see_ me?" He stuttered, stumbling over a thousand different questions he wanted to ask. He checked over his shoulder for whoever else she may have been conversing with, but there was no one.

Somewhat tickled out of her anger and misery by his reaction, the girl's voice softened slightly, "Of course I can see you."

"How the-What?-But no one-You can-No one," He forced his mouth to stop with great effort, taking a moment to compose himself, and said; "But I'm DEAD, okay? Gone, finito, worm food. Dead, dead, deadsky-"

"Yeah, I figured." The girl interrupted quickly, becoming impatient. Jack's inhumanly green eyes widened considerably further at this. Before he could sputter out another string of incoherent questions she pointedly looked at him and frowned, a universal gesture which, in no uncertain terms, meant 'have you seen yourself lately?' Of course Jack hadn't. But he used the moment to glance down at himself, and it didn't take him long to realize what she meant.

His one and only outfit (though he couldn't recall ever re-donning it since the last incident) was once a stripy crisp white and bold black tuxedo. Yet now every inch was spattered with mud and mould, the edges so thick with it they were tearing at the seams. His leather boots and favourite tie were no better off. In fact _everything_ was utterly encrusted with dirt. Still, at least his pallid flesh had almost completely returned, which would have been a good thing…if the key word there wasn't '_almost_.'

Jack grimaced at his appearance. He didn't much care for what others thought of him, probably hadn't when he was alive either, but even by his standards; watching the many crawling creatures burrowing in and out of his open, rotting wounds wasn't particularly appealing. He flicked an especially annoying maggot from his grime infested cuff and then spoke again, somewhat sulkily, "Okay…so you've got a point, but how's it that you can see me when no one else can?"

The girl wiped one last oily stain from her face and set the flowers down. As she stood, brushing the soil from her skirt, she answered, "Well…I read this book once. It said 'The living will ignore the strange and unusual," A wicked smile replaced her sullen frown, appearing so unfamiliar on such delicate features, "I myself am…strange and unusual."

Jack stared at the girl as if she were a hulking serial killer in a sutured skin-mask…donning a pink tutu and declaring her love for all things fluffy. She seemed to be used to it. "Right, sure. Makes sense…I guess." He was about to comment that she looked perfectly normal to him, but that would have been an outright lie. "So what's your name, Kid?"

"Lydia," She answered simply, looking up at him curiously through thick black bangs, "And you?"

'_Jack_' would have been his immediate answer, but he made the mistake of thinking about it - something which an amnesiac ghost of average intelligence should _never_ be allowed to do. And so instead he replied, "Well…I err…I'm not sure." The girl blinked. "I can't really remember anything."

Exasperated, Lydia crouched down for a better look at the inscription on his tombstone, only to be met with the same problem as her deceased companion. Eyes strained in concentration, she cleared the dirt as best she could, but the letters remained illegible.

"Not as easy as you thought, huh Babes?" The ghost teased. She didn't _entirely_ recoil at the nickname.

He persisted to watch her intently; strangely pleased with the bizarre interest she had in aiding him. She was rolling the possibilities over in her mind, he knew, it was clear from the far-off look on her face - a determined expression that brightened significantly when the answer eventually came to her. At this point, Lydia removed the stout satchel from her shoulder and began searching with earnest through her belongings. She seized the desired items as soon as she came across them - a note-pad and a book. He couldn't be sure, but the story in question was probably some old fashioned English novel, judging by the fancy writing on the front. He noticed Lydia was looking from its cover to his grave-marker as she jotted down odd letters, and only then did it occur to him just what she was doing.

The ghost chewed his filth coated fingernails in child-like anticipation, disregarding the bitter taste with each nibble. In the split-second that she had finished he ripped the paper from its placement without so much as a thank you and read it just as quickly. Then he froze, and his vile lime eyes flashed a brighter shade of green.

He looked from the paper to the girl, trying to determine whether or not she was serious. Much to his chagrin, her face remained perfectly sombre. "You're fucking kidding me, right?" He demanded, but Lydia said nothing. "My name's fucking _Beetle Juice_?"

The girls smile broke into a snigger, then a chuckle, and then she was just downright laughing at him. He would have screamed at her had she not interrupted, albeit throughout degrading giggles. "No! Honestly, who taught you how to read?" Lydia guffawed, "_Betel Geuse_!' It's pronounced Bet-El Jooz! You know, like the star?" Her reply was nothing short of a death glare. She sighed, capitulating. "Never mind."

"I don't care if it's pronounced '_Fuck me side-ways_.'," Betel Geuse interjected, quick to break what could have been an uncomfortable silence…and manage to make it ten times more awkward "It ain't worth shit. Thanks and all Babes, but 'think I'll stick with good ol' Jack" He then grunted and crossed his arms, just for fine measure, in what was evidently a weak attempt at salvaging the last remnants of his pride.

Lydia simply raised a curious brow, "Jack?" She questioned, still amused, "The Pirate or the Pumpkin King?"

Beetle Geuse gawked yet again, but this time said nothing. He was not about to admit that he'd acquired the name from an infantile song, and he certainly wasn't going to ask her about the lyrics - though he very much wanted to. Instead, the ghost gave another misanthropic grunt and increased his incessant glaring. Something he regretted all too suddenly when he caught her turning to leave. Yet still, he said nothing.

He wanted to ask her to stay. He just couldn't find the right words.

"Y'know," Lydia began, her timing knocking him off-guard for the second time that day. His eyes flicked to hers. "I always thought I should come here more often." She was smiling at him over her shoulder. He forced a neutral expression on to his face. "See you around _Beetle Juice_." Her form snaked slowly back around the gravestones, until she'd passed those wholly formidable gates that kept him from following. She waved to him one last time, and then she was gone.

He hadn't noticed she'd been humming his song. He was too hindered in her parting words.

'_See you around…' _

Yeah, sure, right. He didn't believe her. They would not see one another again, because Lydia would not return.

But she _did_.

_A/N: Now before you get your flamethrowers out, I'd like to make a point of the fact that I'm only 16 and writing really isn't my strong point - Art is. …All right, lame excuse over. Flame away. Rip me apart if you must. I'm still gonna write another chapter._ :p


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